


When the walls come down

by mad2Bhere



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Age Difference, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Anal Sex, Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst and Porn, M/M, Miscommunication, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Size Difference, Size Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-25
Updated: 2017-06-25
Packaged: 2018-11-18 22:12:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11299884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mad2Bhere/pseuds/mad2Bhere
Summary: Orsino has an arrangement.Hawke is in a relationship.There can be no compromise.





	When the walls come down

**Author's Note:**

> A little something I did to convince myself to go back to writing.
> 
> The sex turned out a little more disturbing than intended. Sorry about that?

Every night Orsino has the same dream.

In this dream Meredith comes to him to explain that _this_ – all of this, the Circle, everything – is obviously not working; and while the Chantry tries to come up with a new solution they all get to go home. To leave. Everyone.

He accepts that as perfectly logical just like everyone else, the way one does in dreams.

Then the scene shifts and suddenly he is in the great hall. His people come to him one by one to say their goodbyes. He offers a handshake or a hug depending on the situation, and they all tell him about their plans for the future. Some of those plans are ridiculous, the kind of plans young people come up with when they suddenly find the whole world opening to them – but either way he smiles softly and wishes them good luck. Meredith comes to him last; without anyone to guard, the templars decide to leave as well.

Eventually he is the only one left.

He wanders the deserted hallways all by himself. He touches every wall, every table, every book. So many memories.

In the end he returns to his office. He sits down in front of his desk and waits.

And waits.

 

\--------------------------

 

"I could get you out, too", the Champion says sometimes, usually before they end up in bed. For weeks their relationship has been far more intimate than the templars would ever guess. It is a calculated risk on Orsino's part: He sacrifices a part of himself for the Champion's support in the coming weeks.

It has almost become routine: Hawke shows up in his chambers late at night, dressed for battle, and offers to free him – then he settles for sex when Orsino doesn't take him up on it. The First Enchanter wonders how much of this is pretense: Does Hawke feel like he has to make the offer? Is he secretly glad that Orsino refuses him every time?

In the beginning Orsino used to laugh it off, treated it as a joke; then, when Hawke didn't stop, it started making him angry. Today it makes him feel wistful.

"And where would I go?", he asks suddenly.

This deviation from their usual script has to startle the Champion. And yet he doesn't hesitate, not even for a second.

"You could stay with me."

Orsino has no idea what he was hoping for, but this is definitely not it. Somehow this ruins every little fantasy he has had about this.

Because Hawke is lying.

The whole city knows that the Champion keeps two apostates in his retinue: They can flash their magic openly without fear of repercussions because their friend's reputation makes them nearly untouchable. The Champion's legend has already grown to the point that a Dalish outcast and an escaped Circle mage can hide in its shadow – but a First Enchanter would be a different matter. For him the templars would probably try to break Hawke's door down, even though they wouldn't even need to.

Meredith has ways to convince him to come back.

No, he can't stay with Hawke. Not as long as even a single mage remains inside the Circle who Meredith can punish in his stead.

That is when he shakes his head, when he says the words he should have uttered right at the start of this evening – a variation of his usual "I can't, it's too risky." That is when he invites the Champion into his bed.

In an unspoken agreement Hawke has become his final line of defense. If everything comes to a head (and by now Orsino doesn't doubt that it will) all those nights together will hopefully have bought him enough loyalty to guilt the Champion into fighting on their side.

Admittedly he had some qualms about whoring himself out like this, but Hawke makes it easy. The Champion is an attentive, selfless lover: Orsino can just lie there and let him do his thing without feeling like he is just being used.

As always Garrett starts slow – with a kiss on the shell of his ear that never fails to make Orsino shiver ever so slightly. It is a brief, soft touch, barely there at all. Hawke knows not to let the coarse hairs of his beard come into contact with his ear – the Champion learned that after seeing Orsino flinch just once, and ever since then he has been is extremely careful.

Next is the obligatory kiss on his lips – and Orsino can't really avoid the beard this time, but that's alright: Some part of him enjoys the different textures, the contrast of Hawke's soft lips and the nearly painful rasp of those hairs. He opens his mouth to accept Garrett's probing tongue, feels it slipping into his mouth with practiced ease. Orsino reciprocates as well as he can, twines his own tongue around Hawke's, moans ever so softly against his teeth. He likes that as well – the slick sounds of wet flesh rubbing together, which is positively obscene in the otherwise silent room. His eyes close automatically, allowing him to focus on the sensations. Hawke's mouth is a warm, unrelenting presence against his, familiar and yet exciting.

Exciting. Arousing. He _really_ likes this. He didn't at first; physical intimacy with this man (any man, actually) used to make him uncomfortable, but by now he has learned to let go. To just relax and let Garrett take care of him. To trust another person. To a certain extent at least.

He lets the Champion undress him. The warrior has become quite proficient at that task, and before long Orsino is forced to slip beneath his blanket to cover himself. Hawke follows, albeit more slowly; he is much more accepting of his body and doesn't feel the need to conceal himself immediately. Even naked he cuts a magnificent figure, and he knows it: He takes his time, gives Orsino the opportunity to appreciate the sight.

Naturally the first thing he sees as his gaze trails upward is a ridiculous wall of muscle covered in a thousand different scars: A warrior's chest. Orsino's eyes lock in on the one that marks the spot where the Arishok skewered him. It is nothing short of a miracle that no internal organs or his spine were damaged in the battle. Orsino still remembers the sight: Stepping over Viscount Dumar's severed head to see this man standing in the middle of the room, wearing most of his blood on the outside and grinning like a madman.

This is not the body of a man who will die peacefully in his bed surrounded by his grandchildren. One day his luck is going to run out, and he won't  be the one left standing in the end. It is a reassuring thought: Hawke chose this lifestyle for himself, and he will eventually get himself killed either way. He might as well die doing something worthwhile: Not chasing down petty thieves and lowlifes in Kirkwall's streets, but protecting innocent mages from being slaughtered.

"I mean it, you know", he says, and Orsino's eyes snap upwards to his face. "You should come with me. _Be_ with me."

He makes it sound so simple. As if Orsino could just wave goodbye to Meredith and move in with him. It's so ridiculous that it feels insulting.

"Shut up and come here."

"Orsino – "

"Don't", he says, more forcefully than intended. "I don't want to hear it."

There is silence after that declaration, and things proceed like they were meant to. He wishes Garrett could do without talking for a night. The whole point of these meetings – apart from his top-most priority of convincing Hawke to sacrifice himself for him – is to spend one evening without having to think about anything. One evening that leaves him so exhausted he will hopefully be able to sleep without dreaming.

Preparation doesn't take as much time as it used to. They do this often now, and Orsino has grown used to the sensation of fingers inside him. He goes slack instantly, relaxes, allows the intrusion without conscious thought.

It's easier when he is lying on his stomach and the Champion can't see his face, but Hawke prefers him like this: On his back, looking up at the large man looming over him, unable to conceal his reactions. The only advantage is that this way Hawke's fingers rarely manage to reach that spot inside him which causes him to make embarrassing noises. This is still bearable, and Orsino is able to keep a straight face.

It is just a taste of what's to come, after all. When he still dreaded the act itself this was also unpleasant, but now it only fills him with anticipation. The feeling of another person inside him, stretching and scissoring, first one finger, then two, searching, but never finding.

He feels himself stirring, just from that. It's ridiculous how well the Champion has trained him: When this started a few weeks ago, Orsino needed to close his eyes and stroke himself to find any kind of enjoyment in this. Now Hawke can make him come untouched. It has to do wonders for the man's ego.

"Are you alright?"

The Champion only asks that once he has shoved three fingers into him, all the way up to the knuckle. When there's no turning back. If he said no, if he cried out in pain, what would Hawke do? Would he stop? There would be no point now that they've come this far. He is stretched and slick, he can take cock. Orsino nods.

The First Enchanter never asks for anything in return. For what exactly should he ask, anyway? He fears it will come to a battle, feels it in his blood, but he can't _know_ ; would it make him look suspicious if he told Hawke? Would the Champion think he orchestrated it if it came to that? That's what they accuse him off, that he keeps provoking Meredith. If the Champion believes he is to blame for the things to come, his people will lose their only chance of survival.

He is afraid. For another reason, as well: If he told Hawke exactly what he expected of him, what he is going to need in the weeks to come, then Hawke is free to make demands of his own.  Orsino has nothing to offer but this, and he is hardly the most engaging partner for bed sport. He doesn't want to find out what else Hawke might want.

This is better. This easy, light thing. That way he can close his eyes and imagine...

No, that's not right. It's nothing all that clear – it's just a feeling, something unsubstantial. He can close his eyes and think about nothing, that's what he does, and it makes him feel as if...

He doesn't want to say it, not even think it.

There it is now, the very tip of the Champion's cock against his hole, waiting silently. Orsino barely even noticed how Hawke bent his legs out of the way. It takes a second until he has gathered his thoughts; then he breathes out, relaxes, turns his head away. Hawke reaches for his cheek and turns him right back, and then...

It feels lewd somehow, having a tongue shoved into his mouth while a cock pushes into his ass, being filled in both ends. Hawke likes doing that. Another kind of conditioning, probably.

Or perhaps the Champion is merely trying to calm him down, to take his mind off the pain he doesn't even feel anymore. It doesn't hurt – or maybe it does hurt, and he has just learned to bear it. It's difficult to tell, especially when he has to focus on breathing. He nearly chokes on his own tongue every time Hawke does it.

It's too much already. His body feels too small all of a sudden, far too small to contain both Hawke's cock and enough air for him to survive.

Alright, it does hurt. So much so that he bites the Champion's tongue without meaning to. It's a good kind of hurt, though: It burns as his body is being stretched to its very limit, and he grows lightheaded as he keeps forgetting how to breathe. He wraps one of his legs loosely around Hawke's waist, tries to pull him deeper, even though it doesn't help at all. The Champion has to go slow, much slower than he probably wants to, but it can't be helped: No matter how much they prepare, that enormous human prick just barely fits inside him. Hawke has to hold his hips down with one hand and push his cock in with the other. It's an agonizing pace that makes Orsino feel every vein, every line on this throbbing, hard thing inside him.

Then, when Hawke is a little more than halfway in, it happens. Orsino's whole body goes rigid, and he can barely summon enough strength in his arms to claw at Garrett's shoulders and push his head away. His first breath is a shaky gasp that turns into a high-pitched mewl as the Champion' cock advances even further.

It's the questionable advantage of being with a human whose cock is both longer and considerably thicker than his own. Hawke doesn't have to worry about finding the right angle; he can't possibly miss  Orsino's prostate as he pushes in. From now on the constant pressure on that spot will drive him mad until he begs Hawke to go harder, faster, to stop, to kill him, to just _end_ it one way or another.

It's good. It's better than good, better than anything he could have hoped for. There is nothing on his mind, nothing at all, except this. Nothing but the other man's flesh pushing into his body. Nothing but the impossibly slow drag of that monstrous cock.

He can't seem to breathe right. Every inhale turns into a shudder, each exhale becomes either a moan or an embarrassing squeal, depending on what Hawke's currently doing inside him.

And then it gets better, or worse, he doesn't know. There is a certain point, a certain depth where he just _knows_ , knows with absolute certainty that he should not be breached any further. No matter how many times they do this, he just can't shake this instinctual fear that he will be hurt, ripped apart.

He has to hold on to something, anything. He wraps his arms around Hawke's back and pulls him closer, pushes his head down. His fingers find new scars there, what feels like five, six arrows that ended up in his back nearly dead center. It's a miracle this man is still alive.

When Hawke's beard brushes his neck their hips finally make contact, and Orsino can feel the thick, wiry hairs between his legs. For one crazy second he is convinced he is being mounted by an animal.

The Champion stays like that for a while, probably in an attempt to let him get used to the sensation – as if one could ever get used to the feeling of having one's most vulnerable part completely at the mercy of someone else's whim. That in itself is terrifying – he feels weak, exposed, threatened. It's all just in his head, and yet it's nearly overwhelming.

Hawke is patient with him, waits until he's done gasping for air like a dying fish, then starts rocking back and forth ever so slowly. It's the sweetest kind of torture.

Orsino loves it, but he hates what it does to him. What it reduces him to. He's painfully hard now, and the entirely accidental brushes of his own cock against Hawke's stomach aren't really helping. It's pathetic. Humiliating. No one must ever find out that he can make these noises.

He just can't stop. Every little thrust of Hawke's hips wrings a moan, or a gasp, or a _squeal_ from him. He must sound like he's dying.

It is so much, so much pressure and sensation and pleasure and pain, so much of everything that he doesn't even worry about Meredith's knights patrolling the hallway and whether they might hear him through the door.

He just lies there and takes it. There is nothing else to do.

His climax comes and goes, completely unnoticed by him. His stomach and chest are wet all of a sudden, and that's that. Orsino is far too focused on another part of his body to give his own neglected  cock  any mind.

Now Hawke's cock is a different matter. Every thrust of the Champion's hips makes his whole body quiver, and his world shrinks down to that spot where they are connected. He definitely notices when the Champion reaches his peak: Again it feels like he is being pushed past his limit, filled well beyond what should be physically possible.

Overwhelming is not nearly a strong enough word to describe the experience. It's impossible. It's addictive. It's probably the last thing he ever thought he wanted or needed.

He never wants it to end.

 

\----------------------

 

The best part comes afterwards, when he wants nothing more than for Hawke to leave and let him sleep in peace. The Champion wastes only a few minutes resting before he gets up to retrieve some wet towels. He cleans Orsino thoroughly, and doesn't stop until every last trace of sweat and semen is gone from him. The cold towel feels nice on his skin.

He has no idea why the Champion bothers. Orsino himself certainly wasn't this considerate when he was at Hawke's age. If their positions were reversed and Orsino was the adored hero of the city sneaking into a heavily guarded tower for the sake of random trysts with a man more than twice his age – then these nightly meetings wouldn't be happening. There were easier ways to get one's dick wet, and probably better ones, too. It makes no sense.

"I love you", Hawke says.

The first time he uttered those words a few weeks ago, Orsino was so shocked that he didn't react in any way. He just stared, wide-eyed, until Hawke left after an incredibly long awkward silence. When they met again the Champion was subdued and more careful with his words, like a man who knows he's treading on thin ice.

The First Enchanter prefers not to lie to anyone. He will avoid certain topics, gloss over some things, but he will speak the truth unless doing so equals a certain death sentence. He thinks this isn't one of those cases, though that's probably debatable. Still, he could just speak honestly.

He doesn't, though.

He would first have to figure out how he feels about Hawke, and that's something he would rather not dwell on. Only suffering lies down that path.

So he smiles, pushes himself up on his elbows and lays a soft kiss on Hawke's forehead. That's as far as he trusts himself. It is as intimate as he dares to be when he has to initiate these things, but it probably comes off as patronizing. Just as expected Hawke's smile is a little less bright when he pulls back, a little more brittle. The Champion kisses him back, on his mouth this time, and Orsino opens up obediently. Hawke is frustrated, he call tell that much, but that is nothing unusual.

This is fine. This works for the both of them. This is good.

"Will you be back?"

Orsino has to ask that each and every time. Just like he's not sure what Hawke is looking for here, he has no way of knowing whether he performed his part correctly. He needs confirmation.

_Always._

That is the answer he receives each and every time.

So when it doesn't come, when Hawke remains silent for what have to be the longest three seconds of Orsino's life, he is close to panicking.

Then:

"Come with me."

 

\-----------------------

 

Three days before Kirkwall's Chantry disappears in a cloud of smoke and light, Orsino still firmly believes everything will turn out alright.

The Champion's allegiance was secured – repeatedly and irrevocably – several bloodmage incidents had shown Meredith that the real threats could be found outside the Circle rather than within, and thanks to Hawke's intervention Kirkwall's nobility has adapted a more forgiving mindset concerning the mages.

Everything is going well.

For the first time in _years_ the future looks promising again.

 

\----------------------

 

Being on a ship is something he is familiar with. He never got seasick before, but now he feels the bile stuck in his throat.

"What are you looking at?", Hawke asks eventually, and Orsino brusquely gestures towards that spot at the horizon where Kirkwall disappeared in mist and darkness hours ago.

The question is redundant. There is nothing there to see.

"Do you – ", the Champion begins, but then seems to forget what he wanted to ask. Orsino doesn't believe he owes him an answer, anyway. There is nothing to say, for Hawke would never understand.

Kirkwall was a lot of things. The Circle was a lot of things. But most of all it was _home_. They had to leave, there was no other option, but somehow it's almost unbearable to not be there anymore.

Hawke's arms come around him, embracing him from behind; but they remain loose around him, and Orsino would have no trouble shaking them off. He doesn't, even though he doesn't need the Champion anymore.

"Come on", Hawke tries, very softly. "I think the other mages are getting restless. We should probably talk to them."

It is a fairly transparent attempt to get him to focus on something else, anything else, but Orsino is not in the mood.

"Just a little while longer."

Securing the ship was easy enough – the difficult part was to decide where they should go afterwards. The others discussed their options frequently, but Orsino felt no need to offer his own opinion. He has nowhere to go, nowhere to be – they could walk straight into the Deep Roads for all he cared and he would have no other choice but to follow them.

He has played his part already.

There is nothing for him out there, nowhere.

And so he keeps standing there, waiting, and he has no idea what for.

 


End file.
